


He hasn't touched a drop

by Ebm36



Series: He was a father to all of us [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebm36/pseuds/Ebm36
Summary: Missing scene between ep 9 and  ep 10 / s3





	1. His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Il n'a pas touché une goutte...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16484933) by [Ebm36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebm36/pseuds/Ebm36)



        Two days. It had been two days and the image hadn’t left his mind, no, not his mind, his eyes. It was printed on his retina: pale blue eyes losing their light, their life in an otherwise already dead white face. Athos couldn’t remember anything else but the eyes. Eyes which had once been full of so many expressions, eyes which had once looked at him with affection or anger, with understanding or irritation, with sadness or joy, with pride or disapproval, eyes which had always looked at him like a father’s eyes would look at a son ... but eyes which hadn’t looked at him once in their last moments of life.

        Athos tried to breathe but something kept his chest from expanding enough to let the air enter his lungs. He slipped a finger into his collar to loosen it but it had nothing to do with his clothes. He wanted to close his eyes but the vision was still there. It had kept him away from his bed, even though he knew he needed rest. Two days without a real sleep, two days during which he had only dozed because his body needed it and had dragged him towards short intermittent moments of oblivion against his will. 

        The courtyard was noisy and men were running around him. Life continued. He leaned against the wall of the stables, letting the cold stone soothe his agitated nerves.

 

“Captain!”

 

The word itself shocked him. For him, the Captain was still Tréville, he had always felt as if his charge was just temporary, as if he was there only to keep things right during Tréville’s absence. He turned around abruptly making the world dance around him and he felt a nausea making its way up his throat. He swallowed to chase the burning sensation of acid saliva.

 

“Yes.” He croaked and his voice seemed to astonish the young cadet who had spoken.

 

“Er … I’m sorry, Captain, you are requested at the palace.”

 

Athos sighed and the insignificant amount of air which left his lungs surprised him.

“Will you be alright, Captain?” The young cadet asked.

 

Athos stared at him with a blank expression, just letting his eyes watch the freckles on the boy’s cheeks, his brown eyes, the scar on his left eyelid which nearly closed it, making him look older, and his orange mop of hair sticking out in every directions as if he had just left his bed.

 

“Captain?”

 

        Athos came back to his senses and he breathed again.

 

“Go back to your duty.”

 

The young man bowed his head at the harsh tone, clearly hurt by the behaviour of his Captain, a man who was usually so kind. Athos noticed it and, as the cadet was about to turn around, he caught his elbow.

 

“I’m sorry, Galland, thank you.”

 

        Galland just nodded but a small relieved smile appeared on his lips before he ran towards the smithy.

 

_ I need it, I need it but I can’t. They need me. I feel so lost.  _ Athos thought gritting his teeth and fighting another nauseous feeling  

 

He walked wearily towards the stables where the new stable boy had already prepared his beautiful friesian. The sight of the shining black coat calmed him a little, he removed his glove and let his hand roam over the silky croup and flank. The black stallion turned his big head to nuzzle his neck and Athos felt his eyes water. Crying. They had all cried. Aramis, bending over Tréville’s head had sobbed like a child, his shoulders shaking when he had realised that his skills wouldn’t save him this time. Athos had never seen him in this state. D’Artagnan …Athos  could still see the horrified expression on the young man’s face, the way he had tried to stifle a cry with his gloved hand. He had just lost another father. Athos could understand his despair. 

And Porthos … It was Athos who had told Porthos what had happened. He would never forget the way the giant had stared at him with an unbelieving look, the way he had seized the collar of his uniform as if Athos had been responsible for Tréville’s death - perhaps he was, after all - and the way he had suddenly curled up, wrapping his arms around Athos as if his Captain was a board allowing him to stay afloat after a wreckage, and he had cried, the giant steady Musketeer, he had cried helplessly against Athos’ neck, while the latter held him with all his strength. They were orphans now and the realisation had broken them.

        But Athos hadn’t cried. Athos couldn’t cry. When he had joined Sylvie after they had taken Tréville’s body to  _ Le Louvre  _ as requested by the Queen, he had thought that he would, at last, be able to grieve properly. When the young woman had taken his hands into hers, silently lowering her head against his shoulder, he had thought that the  _ thing  _ -as he called it inwardly- which was suffocating him, would leave his body, but nothing.  _ Tell me,  _ Sylvie had said softly, cupping his cheek, but he had averted his eyes and had fled. Once more, he had fled and had taken refuge in his office, throwing himself onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow, waiting, waiting for something to happen but nothing had happened and the image of Tréville’s dying eyes was still printed inside his eyelids.

His horse’s soft neighing brought him back to the present . Requested by her Majesty, very well, he would go and do his duty. He led his stallion through the courtyard and ignored Aramis who called him from the stairs.

 

“Athos!” Aramis tried again.

 

        Athos stopped and waited for his friend to reach him. Aramis put a hand on his shoulder and watched him with concern.

 

“Are you alright Athos?”

 

“Perfectly fine.” Athos replied dryly, turning around and leaving a stunned and sad Aramis.

 

He didn’t see Porthos coming behind his friend and asking softly:

 

“How is he?”

 

“Bad.” Aramis’ voice was strangled as he watched Athos’ hunched figure move away.

 

“Don’t worry, he’ll be alright.” Porthos tried to reassure him squeezing his shoulder but his voice wasn’t as steady as he wished and his eyes as dry as he tried to make them look.

 

        Aramis ran a hand over his face, discreetly wiping his eyelids and Porthos noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

 

“You know him. I fear that …”

 

“I know, but we are here, and he has Sylvie too.” Porthos tried to reassure him.

 

“How is d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked changing the subject abruptly. Porthos suspected that he didn’t want to talk about Sylvie, it made him frown.

 

“Like a child who has lost his father a second time, but Constance is watching over him and he works a lot to forget his sorrow.”

 

        Aramis sighed and turned around. He would try to do the same: drown himself in work to forget. Porthos watched him leave with worry.  He was sad of course, enough to make him sick, enough to make him stare at his ceiling when he should try to sleep, but he had already lost so many people, he would survive this new death. 

        He turned towards the gates when he heard the heavy hooves of Athos’ gigantic black horse. He caught a glimpse of Athos’ hair flying in the wind. He addressed a Musketeer coming from the mess and asked:

“Do you know where the Captain is going?”

 

“The Queen has asked him to go to the palace to organise the funeral.”

 

“Oh. Thank you.” Porthos murmured frowning.

 

He stayed for a while, his arms down by his side, his fingers clenching and unclenching nervously. The atmosphere in the courtyard was eery without the presence of his friends.

 

“Sir? Where do I store these weapons?” A young voice called.

 

“In the kitchen, of course.” Porthos snarled irritatingly pushing the young cadet towards the armory.

 

With a last look towards the gates, he followed the young man and prepared himself for a busy afternoon, but an image wouldn’t leave his mind: Athos’ vacant eyes. 

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

        Athos didn’t listen. The beautiful porcelain eyes were teary and red rimmed and he was tempted to disappear into them. Words were trying to make their way into his brain but they had no meaning. The Queen was talking about funeral, coffin, homage, noblemen, France, father, King, hate, … words with which Athos’ brain couldn't create a single meaningful sentence.

 

“I can’t  think of anything else, Athos ...  _ Do you hate me so much? _ ” The Queen whimpered.

 

_ What? _

 

“I’am sorry, your Majesty. I was …” Athos stammered blushing deeply.

 

“ _ Do you hate me so much? _ These were the last words he heard from my mouth.” She repeated, the end of the sentence dissolving into a sob.

 

        She clapped a hand on her mouth and tried to stop her tears from falling. Athos stared at her, frozen. She straightened suddenly, reached out her fine white fingers and gripped his forearm.

 

“How are you Athos?”

 

“I’m fine, your Majesty.”

 

“Don’t lie to your Queen, Athos.” She smiled softly.

 

        He stared at her mouth. Words couldn’t enter his brain but images could and it was a disturbing sensation. Everything looked more bright, more clear with a strange relief. He paid attention to things he had never noticed before, like the shape of the Queen’s mouth. A tear trembled above her upper lip, shimmering under the light flowing through the high window. Those lips reminded him of the flesh of the peaches he used to steal in the orchard when he was a child . They were vine peaches, with a rosy flesh and a delicate perfume.

 

        He startled when the Queen spoke again.

 

“Go back to the others and rest. You deserve it, you need it.” 

 

        He nodded and bowed. He waited until the murmur of the silky black skirt ,the colour of which had the shades of a swallow’s feathers, disappeared, then he straightened slowly, feeling the wound on his back stretch painfully.

        When he couldn't bear the smells and suffocating atmosphere of the palace anymore, he fled, ignoring a call from a man. Who was he? What did he want? He didn’t care. He had to breathe again and he needed to leave those high severe corridors, the carved golden ceiling which seemed to want to crush him, the ballet of the ridiculous wigs and swirling shimmering dresses. He briefly felt disgusted. He knew how those rich fabrics, expensive perfumes and real hair wigs hid stench, filth, cruelty, jealousy and deadly political games. He needed to flee. 

        Their Captain was so better than them. He was so honest, so brave. He hadn’t deserved to die by the hand of a monster, but he had died fighting like a hero like the Captain of the Musketeers he hadn’t ceased to be. 

        What would he have become, prisoner of the inner wars of the palace? Two days before he had saved his country, how many ministers could be proud of such a glorious deed.

        The cooling air of the late afternoon welcomed him when he arrived on the doorstep leading to the back of the palace where his horse had been led. He tried to calm his heartbeating and raised his eyes to look at a buzzard or a hawk which was flying in spirals very high in the blue sky. It wasn’t the only bird of prey ‘hunting’ around  _ Le Louvre _ . The thought made him snort angrily. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair before crossing the courtyard towards the stables. He stopped when a stable boy roared like a rabid dog because a horse had escaped its box. The elegant mare was galloping cheerfully ignoring the boy’s screams. 

Athos froze. He closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning but the image was still there, behind his eyelids, waiting for him. Pale eyes looking away, pale eyes dying. He tried to stifle a whimper with his gloved hand but he felt sick again. His eyes were dry, his throat was dry. He needed it. Now. 

He started to run ignoring the people who were forced to step back. He let his legs carry him through the streets until he arrived in a narrow alley where he stumbled, his feet unable to bear the weight of his body. He tried to steady himself by leaning on a dirty wall. When he looked up, he noticed that it was the wall of an inn. A shabby inn of course, but a place where he could isolate himself amongst strangers who were too busy forgetting their life with the help of cheap alcohol to notice him. He bent his head to enter the low ceilinged filthy room.

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

 

“What do we do?” Aramis asked anxiously for the tenth time in less than five minutes.

 

“He has probably been delayed.” Porthos mumbled without conviction.

 

        Aramis ran his hands through his hair and walked towards the corner of the street, coming back a few seconds later, even more agitated. 

 

“It’s becoming dark, he should be here now.”

 

“Maybe he is with Sylvie …” Porthos mused.

 

“Alright, I will go there and ask her if she has seen him.”

 

“I will search the inns.”

 

Aramis turned around staring at him with wide eyes.

 

“You think he could … Please tell me he isn’t that stupid!”

 

“It’s not stupidity Aramis, it’s sorrow. We all have our own ways to cope. Go and tell d’Artagnan before leaving but stop him from coming with us, he must stay here in case Athos comes back.” Porthos explained looking towards the young Musketeer’s quarters.

 

A strangled sound coming from Aramis made him look at him. His friend’s head was bent, a hand covering his eyes, hidden behind his hair. Porthos approached him gently and parted the matted curls with one finger. 

 

“May I come in?” He whispered.

 

        Aramis snorted and looked up with a sad smile, his eyes shining in the glow of the torches illuminating the courtyard. 

 

“If …”

 

“No, Aramis, we will find him.”

 

“We can’t lose another …”

 

“No, we won’t lose another Captain, I swear. Now, let’s find our grieving brother.”

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

TBC


	2. His Grief

        Walking through the narrow streets around the garrison by night wasn’t an easy task and could be quite dangerous but Porthos had been a street child and knew how to move after nightfall, knew how to avoid the traps which were waiting hidden in dark doorways, behind abandoned waggons or broken windows. He walked like a bull, head low, a worried frown on his forehead. After having thoroughly searched three of their usual taverns, he noticed a weak light coming from a dark alley. He approached carefully, a hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes trying to pierce the shadows.

        He was about to enter the eerie place when the door burst open and a body landed at his feet in a heap.

 

“And don’ come back.” A female voice shouted from inside.

 

 _Nice place_ , Porthos thought before bending over the figure huddled on the dirty ground. He carefully tried to roll the man over but he groaned and curled a little more on himself.

 

“Very well, sleep in the gutter, if you prefer.”

 

        Porthos sighed when he noticed that the man in question was more a boy, with thin blond hair, a crooked nose and the unmistakable marks of smallpox. He rolled him towards the wall of the inn to keep him from being crushed by boots or hooves and arranged his worn out jacket to protect him from the chill of the night, before entering the inn.

        The place was like its patrons: worn out, sad, filthy. The air was smelly and thick. When Porthos entered unfolding his tall body, a heavy menacing silence settled. He walked towards the woman who seemed to own the place. She looked at him with a wicked smile allowing her three remaining yellow teeth to appear and exclaimed in a slurred voice:

 

“Hey, loo’ at tha’! Ou’ inn is the new headqua’te’ of the Musketee’!”

 

“Can you repeat?” Porthos asked, his heart beating furiously.

 

“You deaf, fat boy?” She sneered, her laugh making her greasy flaccid cheeks shake and a few dirty strands fall from underneath her once-white bonnet.

 

        Her breath nearly made Porthos gag, but he had seen or, in that case, smelled worse, so he took a step forwards, both his hands flat on the counter. The woman recoiled slightly, impressed by the height and muscles of the dark skinned Musketeer.

 

“Now you will repeat what you said otherwise I’ll order this disgusting hole to be closed.”

 

        Her eyes widened for half a second but she regained her composure and a hand on her fat hip she snarled:

 

“Under which charges?”

 

“Very well, princess, you want to play with the fat boy?” He asked his eyes blazing.

 

        He took a walnut in a bowl and without taking his eyes of hers, he broke it between his thumb and his forefinger clearly meaning that he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same with her head or the head of anyone who would try to fight him.

        A voice came from somewhere near the far wall of the room. Porthos half turned but kept an eye on the fury behind her bar.

 

“A Musketeer was sat there tonight.” The man pointed at a table in a dark corner.

 

        He seemed less inebriated than the rest of the customers.

 

“Where is he now?”

 

“ _La Françoise_ asked him to go away because he just sat there without ordering anything.”

 

“My respectable inn isn’t a parlo’ of the Queen. Eithe’ you pay or you go to hell.” She growled.

 

“Where did he go?”

 

“Don’t care. His excellence was kind enou’ to buy a bottle befo’ leaving.” She continued with a mocking curtsy. “I s’ppose that my chairs aren’t goo’ enou’ for his noble rear.” She burst into laughter instantly imitated by the whole assembly.

 

        Porthos threw his fist into the bowl of walnuts, stopping the hilarity, and he rushed outside. He breathed in deeply, the fresh air calming him a little.

 

“Where are you hidden, you stubborn fool?” He growled.

 

        A moaning came from the boy asleep against the wall. Porthos sighed sadly then began to walk, hunch and defeated. He let his steps lead him through Paris, unable to think clearly, unable to find a solution but fearing his return at the garrison. He soon made out the shapes of trees and understood that he was near the _Jardins du Luxembourg_. He followed the hedges making a few sleepy birds leave their branches and breathed in the perfume of the flower beds.

        He raised his head towards the houses around the large park and suddenly his heart missed a beat. _Rue Férou_. Why hadn’t he thought of this place? Athos still owned it even if, now, he was more often at the garrison or with Sylvie.

        He entered the dark street helped by the moon which was now high in the sky and was bright enough to let him see the cobbles. The towers of Saint-Sulpice were dark and sinister over the silver shades of the sky. He stopped in front of the low door and raised his head to look at the second floor windows. All the shutters were closed and no noise came from the rooms where people were probably asleep. He pushed the door open and peered into the narrow staircase. The wood creaked when he started to climb but he continued until he reached the landing of Athos’ former apartment. He wasn’t sure, but when his vision became accustomed to the darkness he managed to see a faint finger of orange glow slipping under the door. Cursing his trembling fingers, he carefully turned the knob.

 

“Whoever you are, go away!” A muffled voice mumbled.

 

“Nice to see you too, Athos, even if the verb to see is slightly inappropriate considering the light in this room. ”

 

“Porthos, go away. I don’t want company.”

 

        Porthos squinted to see where Athos was hidden and he finally found him, huddled on the floor in a corner, his legs bent and his face buried between his knees, his arms encircling them.

 

“You don’t want company but it doesn’t mean that you don’t need it.” He replied softly, trying to erase the slight frustration in his tone.

 

        Porthos took the candle from the table and approached his friend with slow careful movements. He sat down facing him. Athos raised his head and Porthos was almost surprised to see it perfectly dry. He had expected tears, but it was Athos, in front of him, Athos with his unreadable mask and his _bolted heart._ However, the pain and despair he could read in those pale tired eyes was worse than a tide of tears. Athos lowered his head again and hid his face behind his long hair.

 

“You speak like Aramis.” He mumbled with a snort.

 

“And you don’t speak at all.”

 

“I don’t need to.” Athos whispered.

 

“I’m a patient silent listener, very patient and I have the whole night. You won’t resist.”

 

“Try me.”

 

        Porthos kept his promise for a while playing with the candle, passing his forefinger back and forth through the bright orange part of the flame. It make the wick sizzle and the wax began to leak creating small puddles on the floor. Feeling his limbs becoming numb, Porthos stood up. A gasp made him turn around.

 

 _So, you want company..._ Porthos thought, reassured that he would be helpful.

 

        He  removed his jacket folding it carefully over Athos’ on the windowsill, then he sat down again, but this time, sliding down the wall, he settled next to Athos, leaving a few inches between them. Athos sighed and it came out like a sob, then nothing.

 

 _No tears, then. Just let go, Athos, for once._ Porthos thought, but he didn’t move or speak.

 

        He waited patiently again, staring at the bottle at Athos’ feet, probably the one he had bought in that miserable inn. It was corked but Porthos couldn’t see if his friend had already began to drink and replaced the cork afterwards.

 

“I need it, Porthos.” Athos whimpered suddenly raising his head and looking ahead into the darkness. “I tried to resist.”

 

        Porthos stayed silent and immobile. Athos’ fingers tightened around his legs digging into the flesh.

 

“I … when … the first time …” He tried to continue but his voice was unsteady and he had to take a deep breath. “You are wasting your time and your talent.”

 

        Porthos startled and opened his mouth to reply when Athos’ low voice came again barely audible.

 

“That’s what he told me the first time I met him.”

 

 _Oh, Tréville. Of course._ Porthos thought.

 

“Actually, I don’t remember it. I was too drunk. He told me again, a few days later when I came back amongst the living and he had to explain how I had ended in a room of the garrison of the King’s Musketeers.”

 

“You …” Porthos croaked, his voice leaving his tight throat with difficulty. “You … never told us.”

 

“I was fighting three men at the same time ... with a stick.”

 

        Porthos laughed quietly.

 

“And I had more alcohol than blood in my veins. Perhaps my enemies were more drunk than me” Athos snorted bitterly. “He saved me, Porthos, he saved me and I can’t …”

 

        He reached for the bottle with a trembling hand. Porthos grabbed his wrist.

 

“Don’t.” Porthos whispered.

 

“I need it.” Athos moaned, unsuccessfully trying to  escape Porthos’ grip.

 

“You don’t need it. What happened next?”

 

“Next? Ah … next, he tried to turn me into a worthy person. I didn’t even have enough time to uncork a bottle or to find a tavern. He made me train for hours. As you know, he didn’t manage to turn me into a sober or a worthy man, but he managed to turn me into a Musketeer.”

 

“Oh, Athos ...” Porthos sighed tightening his grip around the slender wrist.

 

“What do you see, when you close your eyes, Porthos?” Athos suddenly asked, turning his sad features toward him.  

 

“Er … I …” Porthos stammered, closing his eyes as if trying to find the right answer. “I spent so much time in the armory today, that I only see pistols and swords.”

 

        Porthos waited for Athos to speak again, not daring to look at him.

 

“I see his eyes. I have seen them for two days, night and day. Whenever I close my eyelids, I see his dying gaze, Porthos.” His voice broke but his eyes stayed dry and his expression blank.

 

        Porthos started a soothing motion on his wrist with his thumb but Athos escaped his touch and reached  for the bottle again.

 

“Now, stop it, please.” Porthos pleaded. “Look, I’m not Aramis, so I can’t promise you, but imagine. If there is something above. A place, I don’t know, somewhere where good people go after their death, imagine him looking down at you right now. Don’t disappoint him.”

 

        Athos stayed silent for  long seconds before continuing in a terribly broken voice.

 

“He wouldn’t look at me.”

 

“You can’t be su …”

 

“He wouldn’t look at me, Porthos, I couldn’t take my eyes off of his face but  … He looked at d’Artagnan, he looked at Aramis, he looked at … you …”

 

“Me?”

 

“He looked towards the direction you took with the King.” Athos explained in a neutral voice. “The King … these were his last words, his last thought.”

 

“Are you certain?” Porthos whispered.

 

“He wanted to know if the King was safe.”

 

“Are you certain that he didn’t look at you?”

 

“Yes …” He made a pause, a deep crease on his forehead. “No … I … I don’t remember …” Athos moaned reaching for the bottle.

 

        Porthos grabbed the bottle and made it roll towards the far wall of the room. Athos was about to stand up to retrieve it but Porthos made him sit down again grabbing his shoulder. He felt Athos’ body sway and he closed the gap between them until they were against each other from shoulder to hip.

 

“I was envious. I was jealous, Porthos, because he … I … I don’t know …”

 

“Athos, when was the last time you ate?” Porthos murmured frowning at the tremors he felt running along his arm.

 

“I’m not  … I ... don’t remember …” Athos mumbled running his hand over his face.

 

“When was the last time you slept?” Porthos tried again.

 

“Before his … before.”

 

“Let it go, Athos. There is no shame in crying you know.”

 

“I just … I …”

 

        Athos gasped, bent forward and rocked back and forth. Porthos felt his own eyes sting.

 

“Athos, what’s the matter?”

 

        Athos seemed to want to disappear into himself, curling his arms around his bent legs, burying his head deeper between his knees. Porthos waited for long minutes, then, laying a hand on the shivering back he began to speak:

 

“Look at me, Athos. Look at me, please.”   

 

        Athos didn’t move and Porthos thought that he had already lost the fight but slowly, his friend raised his head. Porthos moved to face him again, kneeling in front of him.

 

“Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. Can you see me?”

 

“What are you playing at Porthos?”

 

    Porthos just approached his face towards Athos’, enough to keep him from averting his eyes, but Athos turned his head so Porthos took his face between his large elegant hands .

 

“Porthos … stop that!” Athos growled trying to escape.

 

    Porthos smiled softly but his fingers were strong around his friend’s skull.

 

“Now, I want you to remember his eyes.”

 

“Please, don’t.” Athos pleaded.

 

“His eyes when he was happy, when he was furious, when he was irritated, when he was fighting, when he was proud, when he was worried. Remember … No, don’t close your eyes for now, just remember … Do you remember his childish smile when we managed to train the people of Pinon? Do you remember the smile in his eyes when D’Artagnan came back after you shot him? Remember the pride in his eyes when the tip of your sword was at Savoy’s throat, yes pride, there was anger in his voice, but there was pride in his eyes. Remember his fear for you when the Red Guards arrested you, remember his eyes when he allowed us to go to Douai.. Remember … ” Porthos finished in a whisper.

 

    Porthos carefully watched Athos’ face, soon seeing it through the veil of his own tears as memories of their beloved Captain flooded his own mind. He blinked several times to clear his vision and saw how Athos’ expression had changed. He felt under his palm, how his muscles moved. Then he felt his friend’s jaw clench, he saw his eyes widen before he closed them tightly.

 

    He seemed to hold his breathe and Porthos couldn’t help but do the same not releasing the pale face, staring at the closed eyelids. Gradually, Athos’ whole body seemed to be crushed by the sorrow he had hidden for two days, he sagged and would have fallen if not for his friend’s steady presence. Porthos caught the first tears with his thumbs and when Athos began to weep, he just wrapped his arms around his grieving friend and held him. He held him tightly against him when heartbreaking sobs wracked his thin body, when he moaned helplessly into the fabric of his shirt, he held him even more tightly when he gasped and tried to escape his embrace realising how embarrassing the situation was, he held him until he felt him relaxing against his chest.

    He thought that he was asleep but Athos slowly lifted his wet face and looked up at him.

 

“And now?” Porthos whispered helping him to straighten.

 

    Athos stared at him and Porthos couldn’t help but tenderly wipe his brother’s cheek with the back of his hand.

 

“Now, I think I could sleep …” Athos answered with a faint smile.

 

“Good!” Porthos exclaimed. “But not here. Come back to the garrison and promise me something.”

 

    Athos’ red rimmed eyes widened with a questioning expression.

 

“From now on, don’t touch a drop.”

 

“I …”

 

“You have us, you have Sylvie, you don’t need anything else.” Porthos insisted.

 

    Athos smiled softly and nodded laying his trembling fingers over Porthos’ heart.

 

“I promise.” He said solemnly.

 

“Come now.” Porthos ordered, his hand on the back of his friend’s head, his fingers briefly scratching his scalp.

 

“Porthos …Thank you.” Athos murmured, his voice hoarse.

 

    Porthos helped him to stand up and steadied him until his traitorous body stopped swaying then he led him to the door. With one last look at his former lodgings and at the abandoned bottle, Athos let Porthos lead him through the dark streets towards the garrison, his strong protective arm around his shoulders, and if a few tears escaped Athos’ eyes, if he felt a little ashamed at being so weak, if Porthos’ eyes were wet, if his chin trembled, the moon alone witnessed it.

 

THE END


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